On the Train, a Man Snatches My Book, Reads by Paige Lewis

On the Train, a Man Snatches My Book, Reads

On the train, a man snatches my book, reads

the last line, and says I completely get you,

you're not that complex. He could be right—lately

all my what ifs are about breath: what if

a glass-blower inhales at the wrong

moment? What if I'm drifting on a sailboat

and the wind stops? If he'd ask me how I'm

feeling, I'd give him the long version--I feel

as if I'm on the moon listening to the air hiss

out of my spacesuit, and I can't find the rip. I'm

the vice president of panic and the president is

missing. Most nights, I calm myself by listing

animals still on the least concern end of the

extinction spectrum: aardvarks and blackbirds

are fine. Minnows thrive--though this brings

me no relief--they can swim through sludge

if they have to. I don't think I've ever written

the word doom, but nothing else fits.

Every experience seems both urgent and

unnatural--like right now, this train

is approaching the station where my lover

is waiting to take me to the orchard so we can

pay for the memory of having once, at dusk,

plucked real apples from real trees.